


tonight i can write the saddest lines

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn, brain: perfect!! how about an eternal sunshine of the spotless mind au?, honestly I wanted to give up halfway through and I'm not entirely satisfied but, me: all right time to attempt long angsty fic about memory loss, please... just take it, the most emotionally exhausting thing I have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>so if you love me, why'd you let me go?</i>
</p>
<p>Keith meets Shiro on a Friday, and everything unravels from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tonight i can write the saddest lines

**Author's Note:**

> title and epigraphs are from two different Pablo Neruda poems
> 
> **IMPORTANT:** This is an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, so there is a lot of playing around with time, which might make things a little trippy at first. But please be patient and bear with it; I worked extremely hard on the plotting of this and I promise it all makes sense in the end!

_if suddenly_  
_you forget me_  
_do not look for me  
_ _for I shall already have forgotten you_

.

.

.

 

 

 

It starts, more than anything, with a feeling. 

He’s at the train station blowing warm air into his hands, beanie drawn low over his ears. The mid-February air hurts a little as it pulls through his nose, and Keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other, strangely anxious.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. This morning, he’d woken up on his back, a peculiarity of its own—he can’t remember the last time he slept without being curled around something. Then the throbbing at his temples hit, full force, and he’d only barely managed to stumble out of his apartment, following the tug in his gut.

It’s something Lance laughs about, most days. “You and your ‘instincts,’” he always says, complete with air quotes; Keith never bothers rising to the bait. The facts are these: when you’ve been stamped a lost cause for most of your life, you stop caring about dead ends. You get a whiff of purpose, you seek out the direction it’s from, because you have nothing to lose.

So when the intercom crackles, “Last call for Montauk,” and every muscle in Keith’s body seizes with the need to run, _get on that train, go—_

He does.

 

*

 

A lone figure stands on the beach, the collar of his jacket drawn high about his neck.

Keith watches him from a distance. The wind rustles the beachgrass, and Keith has to keep his hand on his notebook to prevent the pages from flapping too much. Usually, he sketches buildings—slanting ceilings and airy rooms—but he has a sudden urge to draw this scene: the wet slap of the waves, the sand undisturbed but for a single path of footprints, the stranger and the tuft of white hair that falls over his forehead.

As if sensing Keith’s gaze, the man turns.

Quickly, Keith looks down at his notebook, where he notices a jagged edge from a page he doesn’t remember ripping out, and frowns.

 

*

 

On the train ride home, the compartment is mostly empty; Keith uses that to justify the way his eyes keep stealing over at the man sitting across the aisle.

The same one from the beach.

Keith’s not usually one to stare. Being friends with Lance has made him adept at tuning people out, when needed, but there’s something transfixing about the way the man shakes out his newspaper, the gleam of his prosthetic under the lights. Carefully, Keith picks up his pencil and makes the first stroke, the curve of what will become the man’s shoulder.

He works like that, eyes darting between his subject and his canvas, graphite scratching softly against paper as the train rattles onwards. He’s just glancing over again—he wants to make sure he gets the texture of the hair right—when he finds the man looking _back_ at him, a small smile on his face.

Cheeks burning, Keith slams his notebook shut and jerks his head toward the window.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks angrily, headache returning with a vengeance.

“You didn’t have to stop.” The voice is warm, faintly amused—and close.

Keith stiffens. The man has moved into the seat in front of him and twists in his spot, reaching over the barrier between them to offer a hand.

“Takashi Shirogane. Most people call me Shiro, though.”

His hand hovers, waiting for Keith’s response.

“Keith,” Keith finally accepts. Shiro’s grip is firm, but not in the manner of someone asserting his dominance—it’s more a comfort, than anything.

“Are you an artist, Keith?”

Keith’s fingers tighten around his notebook, the edges digging in. “Architect. But drawing helps me think, that’s why—earlier—”

Shiro shrugs off the explanation, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry about it. I’m kind of used to people staring.”

Without meaning to, Keith’s eyes flicker to Shiro’s prosthetic. He feels guilty immediately afterwards, and Shiro catches the expression on his face, says, simply: “Army.”

He can’t be that much older than Keith. Two, maybe three years, tops.

“Sorry,” Keith says, but it’s a flimsy, half-baked thing, and he hates himself for the inadequacy of it, its clumsiness.

“I was lucky,” Shiro confides, a whole history pressed up against those three words. He turns away from it quickly, though, asking Keith: “So where are you headed?”

“Rockville Centre.”

Shiro’s eyes widen. “Me, too.”

“Small world.”

“It is, isn’t it,” agrees Shiro, and Keith doesn’t want to be drawn in by the twinkle in his eyes but he _is,_ somehow.

Damn it.

 

*

 

The walk back to his apartment is cold, and dark, and Keith keeps his hands shoved in his pockets, head bent and wishing for a scarf.

A honk from behind startles him. Keith spins away from the curb of the sidewalk as a car pulls up beside him, headlights dimming.

“Need a ride?” Shiro asks, winding the passenger side window down.

“Are you following me?” Keith counters, but there’s little real bite to it.

“Not intentionally,” Shiro says sheepishly. “But now that we’re here, I was wondering if I could convince you to finish that drawing you were making of me earlier. It’d be a shame to leave it incomplete, and I’ve been told that I look pretty striking in the dark.”

_He’s flirting with you!_ Lance’s voice is gleeful in the back of Keith’s mind; Keith pushes it away, refusing to let it intrude on the moment.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he retorts, reaching for the door handle. The inside of Shiro’s car is clean and smells like pine trees; Keith takes note of the small airplane charm dangling from the rearview mirror.

“Just so you know,” he adds, buckling his seatbelt, “I have martial arts training, so if you try anything…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Shiro chuckles, and then they’re pulling away from the curb.

 

*

 

It should bother him, maybe, how easy it is to be familiar with Shiro. _Maybe some of Lance’s friendliness is rubbing off on me after all_ , Keith thinks as they finally arrive at his apartment and Shiro kills the engine, the cozy warmth of his car curling around them.

“Thanks,” Keith says, after a stretch.

“No problem.” Shiro unlocks the doors with a simple press of his finger, and Keith likes it, how conservative he is with his movements, how Shiro exudes a certain calm.

There’s nothing left to say. “See you around,” sounds too much like a promise, and Keith doesn’t give those out easily. He pushes open the door, one hand fishing for his keys.

He’s halfway up the steps when he stops, breath rising in a fog, and turns. On his way back down, he almost slips on a patch of ice but catches himself on the handle of Shiro’s car and fumbles the door open, tongue thick in his mouth with the way the night seems to have condensed into this moment, Shiro’s face turned toward him, wondering, cut jagged by the shadows falling across the dimly lit street.

“Do you want…” Keith starts, stops. “Do you want to come inside?”

 

*

 

In Keith’s apartment, Shiro sits on the couch gingerly, soaking in everything. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone over other than Hunk and Lance, and Keith suddenly regrets not tidying up earlier. He picks up some books from where they were perched on top of his TV, placing them back on a shelf. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shiro lean over to inspect the copy of _On the Road_ lying on the coffee table.

“Do you want something to drink?” Keith asks over his shoulder, moving toward the kitchen. “I’ve got beer and…juice.” He winces at the emptiness of his fridge, remembers that he’d intended to go grocery shopping earlier, before the impromptu trip to Montauk.

“Beer’s fine,” says Shiro.

The can is cold in Keith’s hands as he offers it. He sinks into the couch with none of Shiro’s delicacy—this is his apartment, after all—and watches as Shiro mirrors him, easing back into the cushions, popping the tab of the can and bringing it to his lips.

“I like your place,” Shiro says, easy as anything, and Keith feels something catch in his chest, like a spark.

 

* * *

 

_two days earlier_

*

“Well _hello_ to you, too,” Lance said as Keith pushed past him, shrugging off his jacket.  

Keith shot him a flat look over his shoulder. “Where’s Hunk?”

“In here!” came a shout from the bathroom. Keith followed the sound, Lance trailing behind him.

“For the record, I _offered_ to help him, but Hunk insists that you have steadier hands, or whatever.”

“Okay, Lance,” said Keith, pushing open the door. Hunk was down on his knees on the bathroom tile, a flashlight held between his teeth.

“Oh, good,” he said, motioning for Keith to crouch beside him. “Hold this right here, and pass me the screwdriver, will you?”

“ _This_ is what you needed me for?” Keith asked, dumbfounded, as behind him Lance spoke, indignant, “I know, right? It’s the simplest job on earth but Hunk _still_ won’t let me do it.”

“That’s because sometimes I need to be able to hear myself think, Lance,” said Hunk. “Also, can you please check on the soup and make sure it isn’t burning?”

“Fine,” Lance grumbled.

When he’d left them in peace, Keith asked: “That’s not really why I’m here, is it?”

Hunk glanced up from where he was adjusting the sink’s pipes. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Keith.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t know, maybe we thought it’d be nice to have you over.”

Keith’s grip on the flashlight tightened, but he kept it steady. “Right.”

“Keith.” Hunk sighed and sat back on his knees, the job completed. “Don’t be like that.”

This was how it had always been between them, since they’d first become friends. Lance’s idea of bringing Keith out of his shell was to poke at him until Keith became so riled up that he snapped back. Hunk, on the other hand, motivated through faith rather than frustration. He didn’t give up on anyone, and that knowledge alone was enough to make you want to live up to his expectations, to meet him on whatever ground he stood.

“You’re right.” Keith looked down, chastised. “Thanks, for thinking of me.”

Hunk’s eyes softened. “There, now. Was that so hard?” he said, at the same time that Lance yelled from the kitchen: “Dinner’s ready! For whenever you guys want to stop excluding me!”

 

*

 

Keith was on his second helping of soup when Lance finally asked the question.

“So, uh, Keith, have you…seen _him,_ recently?”

“You can say his name,” said Keith, while Hunk kicked Lance under the table, warning, _“Lance.”_

“Oh, thank god,” exhaled Lance. “I was worried this was going to be some Voldemort level crap, like, ‘He Who Must Not be Named’…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes when Keith raised an eyebrow. “Oh wait, I just remembered: _you didn’t read those books._ ”

“I haven’t seen Shiro,” announced Keith, mostly so that Lance would shut up.

“That’s what I figured.” The expression on Lance’s face had shifted; he looked suddenly, uncharacteristically sad. “How long has it been, since your fight?”

“Two weeks.”

“So that’s it, then? You guys are…” Lance made a halfhearted motion with his hands, bringing them together and then apart. “…over?”

What was the last thing that had been said between them? _I don’t need you._

Keith turned his eyes toward the table, following the whorls in the wood. “I guess. We haven’t exactly talked about it. Is that—” He hesitated, loathe to dwell on the relationship for longer than he had to, but it was Lance and Hunk, who’d been there from the start and were here, now, at its messy end.

_Almost two years,_ he thought, and then stopped.

“Is that something I should do? Find him and— and end things officially?”

“No,” Lance said quickly, exchanging a look with Hunk from across the table. “No, you don’t have to. Sometimes— it might just be easier, to leave things like this. Let them fade away naturally, you know?”

Keith didn’t know. Before Shiro, there hadn’t been much. A few hookups in college—Lance had been one of those—and then they’d graduated, and he’d gotten his internship and hadn’t really had time to meet anyone else. Until the beach party. Until Montauk.

And then, impossibly, it was over.

Keith knew it was over because he’d gotten the last word. He’d looked over the edge, and then he’d jumped, and Shiro hadn’t pulled him back.

 

*

 

Lance tended to get affectionate past midnight.

They were lying on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder, and Keith felt warm with cake and wine. Not warm enough, however, to forget that his motorcycle was outside and he should be heading home.

Reading his mind, Lance yanked him back down when Keith sat up.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lance grumbled, burying his face in Keith’s shoulder. “You’re just going to go back to that lonely old apartment of yours and sit in the dark, and Hunk and I are not allowing that, not on Valentine’s Day.”

“Technically, it’s February 15th, now,” Keith pointed out.

“Shut up, mullet. It’s cold as fuck outside right now, anyway. Just stay the night, you can sleep on the couch. Hell, I’ll even give up my bed.”

“The couch is fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Lance turned to Hunk, poking his arm. “Hunk, are you already asleep?”

“No, but I want to be.”

“I second that,” said Keith, shrugging out of Lance’s grip. “Do you have something I can change into? I feel kind of gross.”

“Sure, yeah, just grab something from my drawers,” Lance waved from the floor, before he was overtaken by a huge yawn. “Wow, okay, maybe I _should_ go to bed.”

“You think?” grumbled Hunk, and Keith rolled his eyes at both of them as he made his way up the stairs.

Lance’s room was vaguely familiar. Keith had been in it a few times, when Hunk and Lance had first bought the place, but their gatherings were usually confined to the first floor. He started with the top shelf—empty—and worked his way down.

If Lance had an organizational system, it made no sense to Keith. He’d buried his T-shirts under his underwear, and as Keith pulled out a shirt, a scrap of paper fluttered down to the carpet.

Frowning, Keith made to put it back, before he caught a glimpse of something printed on it.

_What—_

He brought it closer. Registered, dimly, the sender— _Altea Inc.—_ but focused more on the message below:

_Dear Mr. McClain:_

_Your friend, Takashi Shirogane, has had the memories of his relationship with Keith Kogane erased. Please do not mention the relationship or Keith to our client ever again, and do not show this card to either of the parties involved. Your cooperation is much appreciated._

 

*

 

_“Is this real?”_

“Is what real?” Lance asked, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth as he emerged from the bathroom.

And then he stopped short, eyes widening. “ _Shit._ Where did you find that?”

“In your underwear drawer,” Keith managed, at the same time that Hunk appeared, looking absolutely furious.

“ _That’s_ where you put your card, Lance? You just shoved it in your underwear drawer, where _anyone could find it?”_

“I’m sorry, okay, I wasn’t thinking!” Lance yelled back. “Shit, Keith, listen to me—”

But Keith’s mind was spinning. Lost, he turned to Hunk. “You said ‘your’ card. You got one, too?”

“I…” Hunk’s face was a cliff side right before it crumbled. “I’m sorry, Keith.”

He felt on the verge of panic and something else. Laughter, maybe.

“This is a joke, right? You can’t just—  _erase_ your memories of someone, that’s not real.”

“We looked it up,” Lance started, hesitant. “Altea Inc.— there’s not a whole lot about it, because of confidentiality agreements and whatnot, and I don’t know what their procedure is, but…” He held his hands out, a helpless gesture. “It’s real." 

“Bullshit.” Keith pushed past them, disgusted, crumpling the card in his fist as he reached for his jacket, as he started to open the door—

“Wait, Keith, stop!” Lance was at his side, tugging him back, and Keith turned to punch him, shove him, he didn’t know what, but Hunk grabbed his other arm, pinning it in place.

“Just— just stop and _think_ for a minute, Keith, will you?” panted Lance, clutching his jacket. “It’s almost two in the morning. Where are you going to go? To Altea? To Shiro?”

Keith flinched. Lance, seeing it, relaxed his grip slightly. 

“That’s what I thought. You have no idea, do you? Because that’s how you are: you just go in, guns blazing. Well, I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do. You are going to take off that jacket, and you are going to stay right here, and in the morning you can take my car and chase down whomever you want. Okay?”

It couldn’t be real. It made no sense—how could they possibly make Shiro forget, _why would he want to forget—_

_“Okay, Keith?”_ Lance said, shaking him, and Keith snapped out of it, finally, saw Hunk and Lance, how worried and miserable they were. They’d never looked that way at him before.

“Okay,” Keith said, and he hated how his voice broke on it, how he had to will his fingers apart so that they could drop the card back in Lance’s hand.

*

 

The tinkling bell of the coffee shop set him on edge.

All around him, customers milled, dumping cream into their drinks, oblivious to the ticking time bomb in their midst. Keith made his way to the counter, where Maisie was working the register; he saw her glance up, saw the panic catch fire in her face as she watched him approach.

“Keith. You shouldn’t be here—”

“Where’s Shiro?” he demanded.

“He went home.”

“Liar.”

“Keith, please, it’s for the best of both of you—”

“What’s going on?”

And it was habit, to turn toward that voice, like a sunflower reaching for the light.

Shiro had just emerged from the backroom, a bag of coffee beans hoisted over his shoulders. Keith inhaled sharply, floored, more than anything, by the normalcy of it. How many times had he visited to find Shiro in that exact pose—the same white tee, the green apron, the quirked eyebrow?

But Shiro wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at Maisie.

Maisie grimaced at Keith, full of regret— _I tried to warn you—_ and turned, clearing her throat.

“It’s one of the customers, sir. I tried to tell him you were busy, but he really wanted to speak with you—”

“It’s me,” Keith said, tripping over the words in his rush to get them out ahead of Maisie’s lie. “It’s _me._ Keith.”

For a minute, he and Shiro just stared at each other.

And then Shiro set the bag down.

He moved out from behind the counter, wiping his palms on his apron and stretching out an arm, saying, “Nice to meet you, Keith; I’m Shiro, the owner of this place.”

And every part of Keith curled inwards, singed, because Shiro’s eyes were warm, but it was the warmth reserved for new faces, a polite, unassuming blankness, and _this isn’t happening it isn’t real how could it be possible—_

He stumbled back. His heel caught the edge of someone’s chair; someone snapped, annoyed, _“Watch it!”_

But Keith didn’t care because he’d already burst out the door, more action than thought, fingers shaking as he started up Lance’s car and _drove._

Two streets away from Hunk and Lance’s house, Keith pulled over. He couldn’t face them, not right now. Their expressions would only confirm what had happened in the coffee shop, and Keith still couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —allow himself to believe it was real.

_Takashi Shirogane has had the memories of his relationship with Keith Kogane erased._

_Please do not mention the relationship or Keith to our client ever again._

Outside, a squirrel darted across the street.

Impulsively, Keith brought his hand down on the horn. It blared loudly, a mournful, hollow sound that startled the birds out of the trees, and something dark and desperate rose within Keith as they flew away, turning into little black incisions against the wintry sky.

 

*

 

From the name, Keith had expected a sleek office building, but Altea Inc. turned out to be a small clinic, easy to miss. Inside, all manners of people waited: a young woman, brown hair curled softly over her shoulder; an elderly man who flipped, resolutely, through one of the magazines; a middle-aged woman who stared blankly at the wall, a haggard look on her face.

At the front desk, a man with a shock of orange hair and bushy mustache hummed to himself, alternating between typing things up on his computer and sealing envelopes. Keith went to him and stood, awkwardly, before finally clearing his throat.

“Yes? Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“I’m here about this.” Keith handed over the wrinkled card.

“Oh. _Oh,_ my, you shouldn’t have this, this is— terrible mistake, terribly unprofessional of us— I’m assuming that you are the other party?”

_The other party._ Like it had been a contract drawn up between them and then dissolved, like it hadn’t been something he’d lived and breathed for the better part of two years, like—

Keith sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

“Well.” The receptionist looked at him sadly. “I’m extremely sorry for all of this, of course, but our procedure is irreversible and strictly confidential between us and the client, who willingly consented to the operation, so frankly I’m not sure how this would play out in court—”

“I’m not here to sue,” Keith interrupted.

“You aren’t?”

“No, I’m,” he swallowed, Lance’s words ringing in his ears: _just stop and **think** for a minute, Keith, _ but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Thinking hurt too much. And if it had been too much for _Shiro,_ then how the hell was _Keith_ supposed to—

“I’m here to have the procedure, too.”

The man blinked. “Oh. _Oh,_ well, certainly I can schedule an appointment; I believe we have some openings next week—”

“No,” Keith interjected, urgent. “No, it has to be _now._ ”

“With all due respect, sir, you don’t understand. This is one of our busiest times of the year—”

“Coran?” A female’s voice, rich with an accent Keith couldn’t place, sounded from around the corner. “Is there a problem out here?”

“Doctor Allura!” Coran pushed back in his chair, springing to his feet. “Not at all! I was just explaining to this gentleman about how booked we are…” He drew closer to the doctor and showed her the card Keith had given him, murmuring in her ear.

Allura considered him. Had she given Shiro the same bright blue-eyed appraisal? At his side, Keith’s hands curled into fists, fingernails biting into his palms.

Allura’s gaze softened; she dipped her head.

“Bring him to my office, Coran.”

 

*

 

_—In order to carry out this procedure successfully, we’ll first have to create a mental map. You’ll need to gather up everything connected to your relationship and bring it back here. Articles of clothing, photographs, anything you might have drawn or written about this person. Presents he might have given you. Presents you might have been planning to give him. Everything. Once we have those, we’ll begin to construct a rough timeline of your history together. The process works in reverse, so we’ll delete your most recent memories first, back and back until we get to the beginning._

_—That sounds like a lot._

_—It does, doesn’t it? We are altering your brain’s pathways, after all. But I can assure you that the effects aren’t excessively damaging; they’re about on par with a night of heavy drinking. You shouldn’t come out too badly._

_—So I bring my stuff back, and we make that mental map, and then what?_

_—And then you go home. It’s important that you wake up in your usual environment to prevent any sort of mental dissonance tomorrow. Take this pill at eight o’clock, and make sure to leave your door unlocked. The pill will put you to sleep, and we’ll arrive at your house and make sure you’re nice and comfortable in your bed before connecting you to our equipment._

_—And in the morning?_

_—In the morning you’ll wake up, and it’ll be like none of it ever happened._

*

 

_You shouldn’t make decisions when you’re angry._

Who had told him that? Shiro?

_No. Forget Shiro._

His mother, maybe. But that had been so long ago.

Had it been Lance?

It didn’t matter.

_I’m not angry,_ Keith thought as he swallowed the pill. _I’m not angry._

His eyelids began to droop.

_Just tired._

 

*

 

**( _It’s nicer than I expected it to be.)_**

**_(Don’t touch anything, Coran.)_ **

**_(I know, I know. Look, we can set the monitor up over here.)_ **

**_(Excellent.)_ **

**_(I wonder if he’ll be a snorer. Hey, do you think I should get a pair of gloves like these?)_ **

**_(Put those back!)_ **

**_(All right, all right. Head gear is good to go.)_ **

**_(Are all systems online?)_ **

**_(Yes, everything’s in place.)_ **

**_(Good. Then let’s begin.)_ **

*

 

Keith knew how to navigate Shiro’s apartment in the dark.

By the door, he toed off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket before sneaking to the refrigerator. Squinting against the light, he grabbed a bag of frozen peas and brought it to his jaw. As the chill set in, Keith rested his forehead against the cool steel of the fridge and closed his eyes. _Breathe, Keith, breathe._

The kitchen flooded yellow, suddenly bright. Recognizing the battle had already been lost, Keith turned.

Shiro stood, dressed in a gray long-sleeved shirt and ragged red pajama pants, eyes weary but strangely sharp. His gaze flickered between the clock, the frozen peas, and Keith’s expression, and Keith could see Shiro sorting through it all in his head, weighing what to address first.

“It’s late.”

“I told you not to wait up.”

“I was worried. And for good reason, too.” Shiro stepped closer, placing his fingers under Keith’s chin; Keith let the frozen peas drop away from his face reluctantly, exposing the mottled bruise.

“Keith,” Shiro said, voice pained, “what—”

“I didn’t start it,” mumbled Keith, because that was all it boiled down to, in the end. At the children’s home and all through high school, it was always: _who threw the first punch?_

“I didn’t think you did,” Shiro said, as Keith had known he would, because Shiro wasn’t like everyone else. But it helped, sometimes, to pretend. That way it hurt less when Keith disappointed him.

Shiro was waiting for an explanation. It sat there, on the tip of Keith’s tongue. He wouldn’t have to say much to be understood. Just: _there was a man. He was drunk. He was going to get into his car._ Shiro would know; he would fill in the rest: _Mr. and Mrs. Kogane leave behind a young son, Keith, only eight years old._

But something had cracked open inside Keith back in that parking lot. And it was easier to bury those shards, to shrug away from Shiro and say, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Shiro’s lips flattened, a thin line. “You never do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means, Keith.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem saying it.”

Shiro closed his eyes and took a breath—one of his calming exercises. “Never mind. It’s been a long day for both of us; we should have this conversation later.”

He’d given Keith an out and both of them knew it. On a normal night, Keith might have taken it. Arguing with Shiro was too often like throwing yourself at a wall—you tired in the face of that enduring patience. But Keith felt raw with something wild and slightly self-destructive; he wanted, with a sick sense of anticipation, to see what it would take to break through that calm.

“No. Let’s do it now. You’re the one who always wants to talk, anyways.”

“All right, fine,” said Shiro, crossing his arms and drawing himself up higher. “Let’s talk about how sometimes you disappear for no reason and I don’t question it, because I know you need the space to clear your head. Let’s talk about how it’s one in the morning and you’re standing in the middle of my kitchen looking like—” He gestured toward Keith’s face. “Like _that,_ without any explanation. But for God’s sake, Keith, let’s _talk,_ because that’s what people in relationships _do._ They share things with each other!”

Shiro’s voice had turned slightly ragged, and he pushed a hand through his hair, the white tuft standing on end. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me, not hearing a word from you, wondering when you’re coming home? Worrying about if you’re hurt or— or worse? Do you know what that’s like?”

“Of course I do!”

“Do you really? Because sometimes I wonder. I love you, Keith, and for me that means I never want to see anything bad happen to you. But your idea of love…your idea of love is putting a _knife_ in someone else’s hands.”

“So you think— what, that I don’t understand love? That I don’t love you?”

“No. _No,_ I just think you’re hurt and angry and confused and you won’t let me help—”

“Like you’re in a position to help! I’m the one who has to talk you down from your nightmares every night!”

It was a low blow. Shiro recoiled, sucking in a breath, eyes flashing with hurt.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Keith,” he said finally, voice low and tightly controlled. “But lashing out isn’t going to make me turn away.”

_“Stop it,”_ Keith hissed, suddenly infuriated by Shiro’s forbearance, his martyrdom. “Just _stop it,_ Shiro, okay? You’re my _boyfriend,_ not my impulse control. I don’t— Do you want to know what the real problem is?”

He felt it rise within him, his vision crystallizing into a million tiny points. The too-bright kitchen. The peas, now softening in his hands. Shiro’s arms, still folded across his chest, and his fingers, tightening against his biceps as they waited for Keith’s utterance.

“The problem is you can’t stop thinking of yourself as _broken,_ and that makes you go around trying to fix everyone else. But I was _fine,_ before you. _I don’t need you._ ”

The four words landed like hammer blows. The killing stroke had been dealt. The color bled from Shiro’s face; he stood, a marble statue among ruins. One more tap and he would shatter into a hundred pieces on the checkered tile. And Keith, who couldn’t bear to face the aftermath of what he had caused, whirled around, grabbing his jacket and shoes and stumbling out the door, dizzy from the damage he had wrought.

The street was quiet. Buttery yellow light leaked through the window blinds of some of the houses. All these other people, with their own private triumphs and trials, and him, alone on the sidewalk, the winter air cutting through him as easily as if he were made of paper.

Shiro had said that Keith thought of love as putting a knife in someone else’s hands. He hadn’t been wrong; he just hadn’t realized that Keith had been the knife. Because that’s what love did: made you into your own best weapon. Made it so that you knew exactly how to hurt, and where.

Keith stared up at the stars, overwhelmed, suddenly, by a fierce sense of loss. He’d seen it all coming, earlier, as he’d rounded the corner of Shiro’s street; it had been his first thought, through the throbbing in his jaw: _Shiro’s going to be so mad._ And still he hadn’t prevented it. He’d barreled straight into it, as inevitable, somehow, as the pair of headlights wobbling around a bend seventeen years earlier, the two bodies zipped up in black bags at the side of an icy road.

**_(And—deleted.)_ **

One by one, the streetlamps went dark.

 

*

 

**_(We’re making good time. Might even get through this all before 5 AM.)_ **

**_(Just start the next one, Coran.)_ **

 

*

 

Growing up, Keith had loved Legos. There were no cast-offs; every piece had the capacity to become part of something bigger. Cars, planes, towers—he built them all, and drew, and dreamt.

The dreaming happened more often, nowadays, snug against Shiro’s chest. The two of them sat in Shiro’s bed, leaning against the headboard: Shiro held a book in one hand, reading, his other arm tucked loosely around Keith as Keith worked on a sketch. And Keith liked it, the gravity of their bodies—how they had their separate orbits but returned, with a comforting constancy, to meet at points like these.

He’d been thinking a lot, lately, about that. What it meant, to come back to the same person day after day. Permanence, of a sort. And it frightened him, a little, because he had no blueprint for it, didn’t know if he was going too fast or if Shiro was even on the same page, if a year and a half into a relationship was too early to have an inkling that you might want it for the rest of your life.

“What are you thinking about?” Shiro’s nose nudged against his hairline.

_I’m thinking that I love you, and you know that. But do you know that I want to build us a house? I keep seeing it, in my head, some combination of your place and mine. Ours. You could finally have a garden. Maybe we could get a cat. I’m not sure yet. But I want to make all these plans, Shiro. I want so much that I think I’m going to explode with it. Does that scare you? Because it scares me._

“Nothing,” he lied.

Beside him, Shiro stilled. His breath stirred Keith’s hair, sounding a lot like a sigh.

“All right,” he eventually said, pressing a kiss to Keith’s temple. It seemed more perfunctory than anything, mechanical, and Keith turned to stop him, to say—

But Shiro had disappeared, leaving behind only a cold absence, an empty column of air.

 

*

 

Days that dripped with the smell of coffee roasting in a pot. Nights where he sank into bed, heavy, and woke up feeling—not _lighter,_ not quite, but like he had shouldered the burden of another day and come out better for it. An airplane swinging from the rearview mirror, its plastic golden wings catching the sunlight. His feet propped up on the dashboard, the red light coloring Shiro’s face like a blush as they smiled at each other over the center console.

Seconds and minutes and hours that folded in on themselves like ribbon and then unraveled, slipping through his fingers, lost to the void.

 

*

 

It was a blurry sort of happiness.

Hunk and Lance had left at least an hour ago. Outside, the new year tapped at the windows, trailing fireworks from its fingers, _pop-pop-pop,_ but here in Keith’s room, it was blissfully quiet. Just the slow drag of Shiro’s mouth against his, his spine lit up like a fuse beneath Shiro’s fingertips. Something in Keith’s stomach pulsed—not a star so much as an ember that had sat there all along before being stirred, finally, to life. It crawled under his skin, emerged as an exhale, a wisp of smoke:

“I love you,” he found himself saying, before he’d even fully conceived the thought.

At the base of his throat, Shiro’s lips stilled.

“Keith?”

“I do.” Keith swallowed, opening his eyes to find Shiro’s outline in the dark.

Shiro was quiet. “Okay,” he said. Nothing more.

“I’m not drunk,” Keith clarified, because he could read the hesitant look on Shiro’s face. He had had a glass earlier; he remembered the way it had fizzed down his throat. But that buzz had long since faded, replaced by a keen awareness, icy in his veins. “Ask me how I know.”

“How you know you’re not drunk?”

“No, Shiro,” and he was burning up from the impatience of it, the need to prove. “Ask me how I know I love you.”

“Okay.” Shiro rested his hand on Keith’s knee, as if bracing himself. Keith saw his throat bob once, twice, felt the cool metal of Shiro’s prosthetic through the fabric of his jeans. “How do you know you love me?”

“Because,” said Keith, and then he was fumbling out of his shirt, bare-chested and pale in the moonlight as he reached for his switchblade and flicked it open, pressing the handle into Shiro’s hand.

“What—” Shiro recoiled, but Keith pushed forward, urging: “ _Trust_ me.”

He put his hand around the back of Shiro’s neck, pulling him so that their foreheads leaned against each other, so that he could see the frightened gleam of Shiro’s eyes. With his other hand around Shiro’s wrist, he guided the knife so that it rested against the bottom of his ribcage.

“Because _this,_ ” said Keith, and released his grip. The flat of the blade pressed against his skin, bright and cold as a star.

Shiro’s whole body tensed. He alone held the weapon, now, and Keith watched Shiro process it all—surprise and confusion and fear and then, slowly, understanding.

They stayed like that, two statues in the half-light. Keith closed his eyes and breathed in, out, felt his body swell with it, pushing against the metal, but still it did not cut, still he did not bleed, because Shiro held it perfectly in place and Keith loved him, loved this man who walked heavy with hurt but wrapped his gentleness around others so easily, who was strong and fragile and steady, always so steady.

And then, _snick,_ the blade went in, tossed aside—Keith heard it clatter on the floor—and Shiro kissed him, hands cupped on either side of his face, trembling.

 

*

 

“Shiro. _Shiro.”_

The older man shuddered awake, gasping. Keith hovered over him, propped up on one elbow, watching Shiro’s eyes slowly gain focus as he stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.

“Sorry.”

Keith shook his head. “Don’t be.”

“I’m just— it’s so _vivid._ The colors, the smells; I can’t even begin to describe it, all that _life_ in one place and then the bomb goes off and there’s so much smoke and blood and I feel like— like I’m choking on everything.”

Shiro’s hands gripped the sheets on either side of him; Keith reached out, touching the back of each lightly, first the metal, then the flesh. Waited for Shiro to continue.

“And the thing is, I can’t stop thinking about those kids. I got to come back home. But for them— that _was_ their home. They don’t get to leave. And if it’s this bad for me, what must it be like for them?”

Keith pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, considering. “I can’t give you the answers to that,” he started, slowly. “But…back at the children’s home, there was this thing one of the nurses did, whenever it got to be too much.” He reached for Shiro’s left hand, turning it over, tracing the life line with his finger. “She’d tell us to do this and say: _I’m still here. I’m doing my best. I have to let that be enough._ ”

How many times had he repeated those words to himself, late at night and aching for home? _I’m still here. I’m doing my best._

_Let that be enough._

Shiro’s breathing began to even out. Keith continued the motion of his fingertips, found Shiro’s eyes in the dark.

“You did everything you could, Shiro. That’s all anyone can ask of you, least of all yourself.”

He didn’t know if they were the right words. No two scars were the same, and everyone wore loss differently. Sometimes the world spun out from under you and you just grabbed whatever you could. Held tight with all you had left.

Wordlessly, Shiro closed his hand around Keith’s fingers and turned on his side, tugging Keith’s arm with him. Keith let him, sinking back into the pillows.

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Shiro said eventually. “All these beat up parts and rough edges.”

Keith pressed his forehead to the soft cotton at Shiro’s back. Memorized the way they curved together.

“Well, maybe I like the way we fit,” he murmured, drifting off to sleep.

 

*

 

He woke up back in his apartment.

The memory hit him like a wave: it had been early in their relationship, everything green and tender. He’d had to fight to convince Shiro to stay the night, much less take the bed and let Keith sleep on the couch. But it had been worth it. It had been like blooming, to open his eyes and see Shiro puttering around in the kitchen in the morning.

Keith threw the blanket off, feet hitting the hardwood floor. Shiro turned to look at him over his shoulder, reaching up with a hand to tousle Keith’s already horrendous bedhead.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Keith grinned, arm darting around Shiro’s side to steal a piece of piping hot bacon.

“You need to stock up on some fruit,” Shiro told him, almost reprimanding.

“What, my canned peaches aren’t enough for you?” Keith teased, grabbing a carton of milk and pulling down two glasses from the cupboards.

Shiro shot him a withering look. “There is so much unnecessary sugar in that syrup I don’t know where to begin.”

Keith, meanwhile, was unscrewing the lid of said peaches, doing his best to appear innocent as he bit into one. “Mmf.”

“Funny,” commented Shiro, bumping Keith’s shoulder with his as he moved toward the trash can, scraping some fatty bits from the pan. He handed the skillet back to Keith, nodding toward the plate of food he had prepared. “You set the table, I’ll take out the trash.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Keith, depositing the iron in the sink. “It’s my place; I can take care of it.”

Shiro smiled at him, already tying off the bag. “I don’t mind.”

Keith had forgotten the effect that smile had—like someone had shoved spring and all its wild bounty into his chest. But accompanying the surge of affection came a bubbling sense of panic. _It’s just a memory._ One he would no longer have once Shiro walked out the door.

“Wait.” He grabbed Shiro’s wrist, not sure whom exactly he was speaking to or whether Coran and Allura could even hear his plea. “Wait, don’t— not this one. Let me keep this, at least.”

For a minute, nothing moved. And then Shiro’s head swiveled, voice eerily calm as he asked: “Keep what?” with a dead-eyed stare.

Behind him, the doorway had started to go dark at the edges. Shiro himself was becoming translucent; his hand disappeared completely, leaving Keith clutching empty air.

“ _Wait,_ ” Keith repeated, desperate. “Stop. I need—” He stumbled back, spinning around the kitchen for some source of inspiration— _come on, Keith, wake up, wake up, **wake up—**_

Pain flared from the index finger of his left hand. He’d slammed it in one of the drawers, hoping the shock would trigger _something,_ and for a second everything in the room turned sharp again, clearly defined, and then the vision warped—

**_(Allura, he’s gone off the map.)_ **

**_(What? Let me see.)_ **

He was in a hallway, the lights overhead casting a faint bluish tinge on everything. Tiny green and yellow triangles in the gray carpet beneath his feet. A galaxy print hanging on the wall. The potted ficus tree beside it.

He’d passed all this on the way to Allura’s office. Which meant…

Keith ran.

Around the corner, on the right. The brass plaque. And, through the blinds, his past self, easing back into the white chair, hands braced on the armrests.

_You understand, then, that this process is irreversible,_ Allura said, clicking something on her computer screen as Coran drew out the first memento from Keith’s box of belongings.

_Yes._

_And you are set on your decision?_

“No,” Keith said, rattling the door handle, his finger still pulsing with pain, “ _no,_ I take it back—”

Allura and Coran turned toward him, faceless, and then the doorknob began to melt under his hands, the window and wood turning liquid, and Keith was yanked back, head over heels, weightless.

       

*

 

Tuesday afternoon in the park. A group of kids laughing and shrieking as they played tag. His pinky linked with Shiro’s, a lemon donut in his left hand. _Too sweet,_ he thought, handing it over. Shiro took a bite from it and chewed, thoughtful.

“What’s happening to us?” Keith asked, voice small.

Shiro tilted his head back and closed his eyes, the breeze ruffling his hair.

“They’re erasing me. But you knew that already.”

Already, Keith could not recall what came after. It yawned open inside him, a snaking road devoid of all its original landmarks.

“I won’t let them take anymore,” he swore. “They can’t force me to forget the rest.”

Shiro’s mouth quirked a little sadly. “No, no one’s ever been good at forcing you to do anything.”

_I would have followed you anywhere_. The thought landed inside him like a bird, sinking its claws into his heart. _Not in this moment, not yet, but later. How do you forget something like that?_

“I’ll hide you somewhere,” Keith decided, mind racing.

“Where?”

“I don’t know—”

 

*

 

_“No.”_    The silverware rattled as he brought his fist down on the table, the water sloshing in its glass. They were in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the smell of roasting meat and spices heavy in the air, a steaming slab of naan between them, and Keith’s throat closed up because they were so close to the beginning— _to the end._

Shiro surveyed the restaurant and brought a cup to his mouth, eyes deepening as he arrived at the same conclusion Keith had. “You have to hide me somewhere far back, Keith. Somewhere deep.”

“I don’t—” Keith sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to, Keith. If you don’t want to lose me, you have to let me in.”

 

*

 

**_(He’s disappeared again.)_ **

**_(Find him!)_ **

****

*

 

It was gruesome to behold.

The bird had had half its wing torn off already and laid in a crumpled heap of feathers. All around it, the children had gathered, drawn to the scent of decay just as surely as the ants had been. The ants that swarmed, now, over the body, nibbling at flesh, stark black against the exposed bits of bright white bone.

It was still alive. Jared, one of the older boys, picked up a stick and poked it. The bird twitched, wretched, and a sound tore out of him—

_“Stop.”_

Heads turned, some in surprise. Quiet Keith, who kept his head down. Who saved his smiles for Marley and Mina and the occasional adult.

Who walked, now, to stand over the bird.

He forced himself to look down at it. The unnatural angle of the wing. The curled talons. The oozing pink skin around the one beady eye, glazed with pain but still bright with awareness, that stared back.

Keith’s stomach rolled, threatening to rebel. The ants were on him, now, swarming up his shins, over his neck, into his ears: that steady prickle, the crawling sensation that he got sometimes at night that made him want to claw out of skin— _you are alive you are alive you are alive—_

The other kids would think him cruel for what he was about to do. The younger ones because they didn’t know, yet, about all the different ways to die. The older ones because they didn’t want their spectacle stolen from them.

Keith lifted his foot.

Such a strange double vision:

There he was, ten years old, alone, grim reaper of the foster home’s courtyard. And then he stood, older and at a distance, Shiro’s hand on the small of his back, silent in his understanding.

One Keith watched his foot come down. Heard the dull crunch of bones, the tremor of a body laid to rest.

The other closed his eyes and turned away, burying his face in Shiro’s chest.

 

*

 

Black asphalt, bloodied knees. Two long shadows in the sun, blended together so that no one could tell where one ended and the other began. Dad, sitting in a lawn chair on the driveway, an amused look on his face.

“Ready?” his mother asked, hands braced on the bike seat.

“Ready,” said Keith, pushing off. His foot fumbled, trying to find purchase on the pedals as he kept the handlebar straight. Loud puffs of breath followed him—his mother, trying to keep pace, her hands holding the bike steady.

“Let go,” Keith said, feeling the wheels spin under him. He wouldn’t fall this time; he knew it in his bones.

The bike wobbled. Keith held on, still pedaling. His mother’s shadow split from his, growing shorter as Keith drew away and Keith turned, half in his seat, filled with a joy so big it felt like terror.

He kept his eyes on his mother’s face until he rounded the curve and then focused forwards, leaning low over the handlebars, ready for the road ahead.

 

*

 

**_(And…got him.)_ **

Keith met the next memory with a strange sense of acceptance.

Hunk’s birthday was coming up. Which explained why Keith stood in the cookbook section, debating whether _Plenty More: Vibrant Vegetable Cooking_ fit the bill for Hunk’s recent foray into vegetarian dining.

He frowned at the glossy pages, decided they would suffice. Keith turned, ready to march over to the cash register and be done with it, when a familiar face walked by.

Instinctually, he whirled around and pretended to be busy scrutinizing the shelves once more. He’d known that Shiro lived in the same town, but they had forgotten to exchange numbers at the beach party, and some days he felt like their meeting in Montauk had been just a dream. It felt weirdly intrusive and out of place to see him in the mundane lighting of the bookstore when for the past week or so Keith had kept revisiting that moment in the sand: the dark water lapping gently in the background, the moonlit curve of Shiro’s cheek.

“Keith?”

“H-hey.”

“I thought it was you.” Shiro approached, grinning, before raising an eyebrow and dipping his head toward the cookbook in Keith’s hand. “Is that a recent development? I could’ve sworn you were holding a plate full of ribs the last time we talked.”

“It’s for Hunk,” Keith blurted. “His birthday’s coming up, so…” He gestured aimlessly.

“Makes sense,” nodded Shiro, tucking a hand in his pocket as he leaned against the bookshelf.

He was close. Keith was dizzy with it, which was stupid because that was so high school and—

“It’s nice to see you,” Keith said, though it came out sounding a bit standoffish, since he’d forced the words through gritted teeth in his effort not to blush.

Shiro’s smile stretched wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Want to grab a cup of coffee?”

“I’d like that,” Keith said.

**_(Almost done.)_ **

 

*

 

Their headlights cut through the night on the way home. Lance’s god-awful music blared from the car speakers as Hunk drove while, in the back, Keith rested his head against the window, periodically tracing random shapes in its fogged surface.

_“So.”_ Lance’s teeth flashed pearly-white in the dark as he twisted around in the front seat to look at Keith, eyebrows dancing suggestively. “That Shiro dude, huh? I saw you two walk off together…”

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith said, but he was smiling.

 

*

 

Why anyone had decided to host a beach party at the beginning of February, Keith had yet to figure out.

He’d gone through the cursory introduction to the hosts, which mostly involved Lance dragging him by the arm, before retreating to the wooden steps with a plate of food. From his vantage point, he could see Hunk whistling cheerfully as he flipped burgers while Lance stood off to the side telling a story, complete with exaggerated gestures and the requisite sound effects. It wasn’t the worst event Keith had attended, and even though he was going to have to shake the sand out of his shoes and socks later, he could forgive that in the face of the glazed barbecued ribs in his lap.

“Mind if I sit?”

Keith spared a glance upwards, shrugged.

The man sat down on the other side of the railing, reaching under it to offer his hand.

“I’m Shiro.”

Keith wiped sauce off his fingers. “Keith,” he replied, eyeing Shiro. Sturdy, but with gentle eyes. A grip that could have crushed, but didn’t.

“Lost it overseas,” Shiro explained, indicating his prosthetic arm.

“I was going to ask about the hair, actually.”

Shiro’s eyes sparked, surprise mixed with appreciation as he reached up to pull at the white patch. “Dyed it when I got back from my tour. My own way of remembering, instead of…” The shoulder connected to the prosthetic drew higher, a half-shrug.

“It fits,” Keith commented.

Shiro shot him a sidelong glance, resting his arms on his thighs and leaning forward to observe the guests down closer to the surf. “Are you a friend of Rax and Shay’s?”

Keith snorted. “Not really. But my friends Hunk and Lance have this idea that any friend of theirs should be a friend of mine, so here I am.”

“And you aren’t one for mingling, huh?”  

“Are you?”

That earned him a chuckle. “Fair enough.”

They lapsed back into silence. Keith picked up his corncob, rotating it in his hands.

“You know,” said Shiro, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, breathing in the beach air, “I think I might go for a jog along the water.”

It was a beautiful day, all things considered. And it had been a long time since Keith had met someone he wanted to keep talking to.

“Is that an invitation?”

Shiro cracked one eye open, smiled. “If you want.”

 

*

 

When the stars came out, Shiro and Keith stood near the surf, tossing pebbles into the waves. Farther down the beach, the campfire blazed; Keith turned away from it, toward the private bubble of warmth he’d stumbled into here in the darkness.

“I think I would’ve liked to be an astronaut,” Shiro was saying, hands tucked in his pockets as he studied the moon. “Some other life, maybe.”

Keith eyed the horizon, bringing his arm back and throwing the next rock as far as he could. “I wanted to be a pilot when I was younger,” he confessed. “Just get in and go.”

Shiro turned toward him, assessing. The attention was not entirely unwelcome.

“I can see it,” he finally said, smiling.

Keith’s ears burned.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbled, bumping against Shiro’s side before realizing what he had done.

Lance’s voice saved him from further embarrassment.

“ _Keeeeeith,_ ” came the call, drawing closer. “Hunk’s loading up the car— we’re getting ready to go.”

Keith stepped back, jerking his thumb in the direction of his summons. “I should…”

And he knew how it went, from here. Shiro would nod, say: _Yeah._ Ships in the night, going their separate ways, only this time they weren’t going to meet up again, this time the goodbye was for good. _It’ll stop hurting in a little,_ Keith told himself. _It’s almost over. Remember what Allura said, in the morning you won’t even remember—_

“Wait,” said Shiro.

In the sand, Keith froze. “That’s not how it happened.”

Shiro’s hand rested on his shoulder. Keith closed his eyes, willed himself not to turn into the familiar grip.

“That’s what I wanted to say. On the beach, before I even really knew you— I wanted you to stay. And then that night when we fought—”

“I shouldn’t have said the things I said.” It burst from him like shards of glass. “I shouldn’t have— I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t—” He turned, vision blurry from the tears pricking his eyes. “ _Why,_ Shiro? Why did you—”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro said, strangled, metal hand cool against Keith’s cheek. “I was angry and hurt and I’d forgotten that I could feel that much and I—” His voice caught, full of regret. “I thought it would be easier. I wanted, just once, for something to be easy.”

“Don’t let go,” Keith said fiercely, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Shiro’s jacket. “If we just stay here— if I don’t wake up—”

“Keith,” said Shiro, lips gentle over his eyelids, “Keith, that’s not an option. You have to wake up.”

“But—”

Shiro brought their foreheads together. “You’ll find me,” he promised, little more than a whisper. “I know you will.”

And then all of it—the sand, the salty sea spray, the stars bright and immobile above them—was gone.

 

* * *

 

_present_

*

 

He wakes up with an uncomfortable crick in his neck.

Blearily, Keith looks around. Circular stains on the coffee table. Two empty beer cans. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

He hadn’t been the only one, it appears. Shiro sits beside him, head lolled against the cushions, arms slack at his sides, though Keith notes that the prosthetic hand has curled into a fist.

It should freak Keith out, to wake up next to someone who is still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. But the sight fills him, instead, with a strange sense of calm.

He reaches out to adjust the pillows, but Shiro stirs, eyes fluttering before he jerks fully awake.

“Hi,” Keith manages, because that seems the safest place to start.

Shiro frowns and pushes himself up into a better sitting position, dragging a hand down his face. “What time is it?”

Keith glances at the clock.  “Nine.” 

Shiro grimaces.  “Sorry for crashing." For the first time, he looks awkward, a little embarrassed; Keith finds it comforting. “I lost track of time.”

“Don’t worry about it."

Shiro looks at Keith, then back at the clock. “I should go.”

“Probably.”

Neither of them moves.

And then, slowly, Shiro stands up. Keith follows him to the door, grabbing Shiro’s jacket from the peg and handing it over, and as their fingers brush, Shiro pauses.

“It was nice meeting you, Keith,” he says, hesitant. “Maybe we could do this again, sometime.”  

“Yeah,” replies Keith, and tries to figure out why it feels like they’re both missing something important.

 

*

 

On his way back from the grocery store, he picks up the mail.

The usual: coupon booklets, an issue of _Gardening Weekly_ courtesy of Lance. A manila envelope catches his eye; it doesn’t have a sender, but his name and address are clearly printed on it. The heavier, square-shaped bulge toward the bottom shifts back and forth; Keith frowns. CD case, possibly?

At home, he dumps the contents of the envelope onto his kitchen table, bracing his elbows against the counter as he reads the enclosed letter.

_My name is Katie Holt. You don’t know me, but I know you. Or at least a little bit of what you’ve been through._

_My brother has been missing for a year. It hit our family hard, especially with my dad already gone. And sometimes “he’s still out there” isn’t enough. Sometimes hope becomes a poison._

_It was like that for my mom. Like all of you, she found Altea Inc. She chose to forget. I came home and found every trace of my brother wiped clean. Pictures, toys—gone. And the worst part of it all was that I had no one to turn to. My mom was just a shell of herself. She has these flashes, sometimes, but I’m scared to tell her the truth. I don’t know what it’ll do to her. When you’ve lost that much…maybe it’ll break her, to remind her of it._

_My brother’s name is Matt. He has brown hair and terrible eyesight. I have one picture of him left._

_Since my mom’s procedure, I’ve been monitoring Altea Inc. closely, trying to see if there’s a way to safely reverse what she had done. It might be too late for her, I’m afraid. But not for the rest of you._

_I’ve hacked into Altea Inc.’s systems. I’ve listened to your stories, trying to understand. There’s a lot of pain here. All of you chose to forget for a reason. I won’t begrudge you that._

_But, just in case, there’s this._

_In case you ever choose to remember._

Keith puts the letter down and picks up the CD, narrowing his eyes at the label.

_Keith Kogane (2/15)_

Only yesterday.

With a shaky breath, he starts the recording. Hears his voice, slightly hoarse:

_“My name is Keith. I met Shiro two years ago, at a party in Montauk. Hunk was the one who got invited—he and Lance just thought it’d be fun to drag me along. I’m not much of a party person, so I was kind of sitting away from everyone else, and then…”_

_“And then what, Keith?”_

_“And then Shiro came over and asked, ‘Mind if I sit?’”_

*

 

The knock, when it arrives, echoes in his bones.

Shiro stands in the doorway, a CD of his own clutched in his right hand. The shadows under his eyes have deepened. For a moment, they just regard each other, and Keith tries to come up with a description for the expression on Shiro’s face.

_Haunted,_ he decides.

And then Shiro moves forward, a puppet cut from its strings: _“Keith.”_

“Wait.” Keith swallows, stepping back. He doesn’t know how to reconcile this with the frustrating blanks in his head, can’t wrap his mind around the fact that the man standing before him is someone he has touched, held, lost.

Shiro freezes, hand dropping to his side.

“We were together,” starts Keith, mouth dry. “For two years.”

The line between Shiro’s eyebrows deepens. Keith thinks: _I must have run my finger down it, once._ “Yes.”

“And then we just— erased it. Just like that.”

“Don’t say _just,_ ” Shiro says, still holding himself rigidly. “It was never _just_ anything, with us.”

“You’re here because you want to try again,” Keith realizes.

Surprise flits across Shiro’s face. “Don’t you?”

_Your idea of love is putting a knife in someone else’s hand._

_Do you know what that’s like?_

_I don’t need you._

“I hurt you.”

“We hurt each other.”

“So what’s the point?” Keith asks, willing his voice not to shake. “What if we just do it all over again?”

“Is that what you think is going to happen?”

Keith reaches out, placing a hand on either side of Shiro’s face. Something opens up inside him: a hole already dug, a body laid to rest. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

And Shiro, filled with enough faith for the both of them, turns his cheek into Keith’s touch.

“It’ll be okay, Keith,” he promises. “We’ll do better. And even if we don’t, I’ll keep it, all of it. You’ll be my favorite scar.”

His lips ghost over the lifeline on Keith’s palm. Keith follows the motion, thinks:

_We’re still here. We’re doing our best._

_It’ll be enough._

.

.

.

 

_but_  
_if each day,_  
_each hour,_  
_you feel that you are destined for me_  
_with implacable sweetness,_  
_if each day a flower climbs up your lips to seek me_  
_ah my love, ah my own,  
_ _in me all that fire is repeated—_

_  
—in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten._

**Author's Note:**

>  **EDIT 8/5/16:** The beautiful, wonderful, extraordinarily talented [ditaauraart](http://ditaauraart.tumblr.com/) has made accompanying illustrations for this fic, which can be found [here](http://ditaauraart.tumblr.com/post/147595062258/small-world-it-is-isnt-it-part-1-of-a) and [here](http://ditaauraart.tumblr.com/post/148527888809/were-still-here-were-doing-our-best-itll-be), so check them out and show her some love! :D  
>  \+ art by taybleflip can be found [here](http://taybleflip.tumblr.com/post/148042734518/were-quite-the-pair-arent-we-shiro-said)  
> \+ art by yaineart [over here](http://yaineart.tumblr.com/post/160666153108/a-part-i-really-like-from-tonight-i-can-write-the)


End file.
